


Ready to Suffer, Ready to Hope

by holdingontoyoufordearlife



Category: Percy Jackson and the Olympians & Related Fandoms - All Media Types, Percy Jackson and the Olympians - Rick Riordan, The Heroes of Olympus - Rick Riordan
Genre: Comfort Sex, F/M, Future Fic, Oral, PTSD, Shameless Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-11
Updated: 2013-10-11
Packaged: 2017-12-29 01:48:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/999427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/holdingontoyoufordearlife/pseuds/holdingontoyoufordearlife
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-Tartarus: nightmares happen, comfort sex ensues. That's it. That's the story. HoH spoiler free. This story's almost a year old, originally posted to the PJO kink meme for the prompt "PTSD/comfort sex."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ready to Suffer, Ready to Hope

He feels in the racing pulse of her pussy under his mouth that she is close. Percy hooks his elbows beneath Annabeth’s thighs and drags her closer to him, his tongue thrusting deeper inside her. She arches her back with a delicious moan, her fingers threading through his hair, urging him on; he loves that, this communication with feather-light touches and sighs when his head is between her legs and she’s too far gone to speak. She is trembling all over; he can feel it through his shoulder resting against her quivering thighs and his hand skimming the underside of her right breast; the other glides across the plane of her abdomen, his fingers combing through the her fine blonde curls to rub gently against her swollen clit, and she is done. Her fingers slid out of his hair and drop to the mattress as she convulsed with a cry, her relief streaming into his mouth. He sucks idling at her slick folds as she comes down with a shuddering sigh; he nuzzles the inner crease of her thigh.

Then Annabeth screams, and it isn’t the kind the kind of scream you want to hear from your girlfriend when she's in your bed. It is a sound he had heard before and it sickens him. He looks up at her, knowing what he’ll see, because he’s seen it before: her naked torso torn, like the slash of a whip, a wide gash wrapping from one shoulder to the opposite hip, deep and oozing dark red blood as she struggled for breath.

Percy wakes up with a violent jerk and a cry like a wounded animal.

He doesn’t know if it’s a memory. He doesn’t have a lucid recollection of that particular injury from Tartarus but the nightmare has never been far away since they crawled out of hell. The nightmare is always the same: him and her and they’re home, in their bed that is safe and theirs and Annabeth is sighing and his dick is diamond hard and then she’s screaming and dying and there’s nothing he can do, and then he wakes and when she isn’t beside him – if she’s working late with her sketches spread across the kitchen counter or if she’s out with Rachel or if she’s across the country on some sophomore genius fieldtrip to look at goddamn buttresses and he wakes up in their bed alone – it’s suffocating. If she’s there, sometimes sleeping herself, sometimes staring at the ceiling, because she is no stranger to nightmares herself, then he needs to touch her, to confirm that she’s still here, that he is, that they are both here and warm and breathing and alive.

Annabeth is curled beside him, her face half-buried in his pillow, and he doesn’t want to wake her, not when she is sleeping peacefully, for once, not crying and thrashing; for once, not plagued by horrors of her own. He tucks a wayward curl behind her ear as gently as he can, just drinking in the sight of her, her chest rising and falling and rising and falling, but she stirs under his touch.

“Sorry,” he whispers as she wriggles closer.

“You okay?” she mumbles into his collarbone.

“Yep,” he says, but she must hear the tremble in his voice because she opens her eyes and props herself up on her elbows, pushing his hair out of his eyes as she hovers above him.

“No,” she corrects, her voice low and sleepy. “What was it?”

He’s still shaking as he slides his arm around her hips, pulling her closer. “Old nightmare,” he says, nuzzling into her hair, and he’s trying to be offhand about it, but he’s as close to her as he can be without being inside of her so she can feel the trauma of the nightmare still vibrating through him.

“Which one?” She sat up cross-legged on the bed and he followed, resting his hands on her thighs and his forehead against hers, just to be close enough to feel the warm of her body and the beat of her heart. She bites down on her lip as he told her. He has had dreams like this before, and she has too.

“And then you were – you were –” he ducks his head, choking on the words. She takes his face in her hands, then, lifting his gaze to meet hers.

“Hey,” she says, softly, “hey. I’m right here.” She places his fingers on her cheeks and guides them along her jaw, down her throat. His touch lingers at her breasts and rests just beneath them, where he can still see the nightmarish wound like its burned into his mind. Annabeth reads his expression and places her hands over his, moving them over her abdomen. “See?”

She presses his fingers to her wrist. “See?” Her pulse is strong and regular and it settles the panic still fluttering in his stomach.

“Yeah,” he said, drawing a steadying breath, but he didn’t move his fingers.

“Yeah. And you’re right here.” She crawls into his lap. His cock is still half-hard from the beginning of the dream, before Tartarus intruded and tainted his fantasy with horrific images, and it grew harder still as she settled with her knees either side of his hips.

Annabeth kissed his cheek and the corner of his mouth and then pressed her lips against his, gentle at first, then hungrier as he runs his tongue along her teeth and opens his mouth against hers.

He finds his hands settling on her throat, fingertips tangling in her mess of blonde curls but his thumb resting at her pulse point as he kisses her, loving her tongue in his mouth and her fingers drifting down his chest, stroking the length of his shaft; loving her heartbeat under the pad of his thumb. She strokes the length of his shaft and guides his to her slit without breaking the kiss, then pulls away.

“Okay?” she asks, and he knows what she’s asking; she’s asking, _was this kind of nightmare that will not be forgotten by fucking me? If you fuck me and I fall asleep, will you lie awake for the rest of the night, shaking with the effort of not waking me to make sure I’m still alive? Do you need to fuck me or do you need to cry to me?_

“Okay,” Percy manages, his voice low and rough. He catches her lips with his again and gasps into her open mouth as she slides down onto him easily, slick and ready. She sets the pace, slow and languid, like she’s reminding him that they have all night, and all of the rest of their lives.

He rakes his fingernails up her spine to feel her shiver and shifts his hips against hers for a deeper rhythm. Her fingernails scratch at the nape of his neck as breaks from the kiss to cry out. The sound she makes is almost his name.

Percy buries his nose in the tangle of her hair and sucks at the pulse point below her ear as his upward thrusts become erratic, and the slow circles of Annabeth’s hips speed up. 

His own orgasm crashes over him as Annabeth cries aloud again, her head thrown back. She rests her lips against his forehead as their breathing slows.

Percy lays Annabeth beneath him. She sighs contently as she looks down to where he hovers between her splayed legs.

The nightmare has not disappeared, but it has retreated, and Percy’s mouth is watering for the taste of Annabeth on his tongue, and he’s not going to let a damn dream stop him from going down on his girlfriend when she’s spread out in front of him some sort of delectable dessert.

The nightmare, and more, would return, he knew; but for now, with Annabeth in their bed that is warm and safe and theirs, Percy Jackson is happy.


End file.
